


Wolf

by Crit Fail Club (tessacrowley)



Category: Dragon Age (Tabletop RPG), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Basically this is Tessa's take on what Dragon Age 4 is gonna be like, Body Horror, F/F, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lucerni, M/M, Podcast, Podfic, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Slavery, dragon age tabletop rpg, except I made it into a tabletop RPG campaign and got all my friends involved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:35:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 36
Words: 11,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25014064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessacrowley/pseuds/Crit%20Fail%20Club
Summary: Fifteen years after the end of the Fifth Blight, three unlucky strangers are captured by Tevinter slavers and are thrown head-first into two mad, world-changing schemes: one to end slavery and redeem Tevinter, the other to destroy the Veil and rebuild Arlathan. With the help of the Lucerni, with allies old and new, they will be forced to make choices that determine the fate of Thedas.This is a tabletop RPG podcast set in Thedas, using the AGE System ruleset. It's updated every Wednesday.
Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Maevaris Tilani/Original Female Character(s), Male Lavellan/Original Male Character(s), Male Lavellan/Solas, Zevran Arainai/Warden
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Ar lasa mala revas

**Author's Note:**

> Just so there's no confusion, this is a podcast. No one is making any money off it; there are no advertisers. Each of the players are playing characters they created, but there are oodles of old favorites sprinkled throughout. The player characters are briefly introduced in chapter one, as well as all combat allies and/or romanceable characters in the first chapter in which they appear.
> 
> The story takes place fifteen years after the events of Origins, a year after the events of Tresspasser. It updates every Wednesday.

[ [Download MP3 file](https://cdn.simplecast.com/audio/aab8fe/aab8feb8-c0c2-465f-b9c2-f742357b0e30/1b1861c2-ed8e-49a1-9eb3-8afce47016d2/01-ar-lasa-mala-revas_tc.mp3) ]

* * *

# Player Characters

**Elyan Bayard** | Human Rogue ♂️ | Orlesian Exile | Played by Val

Elyan was raised the son of a middle-class family on the outskirts of Orlais that made and sold musical instruments, which is where he acquired his natural penchant for performance. While making a living as a travelling minstrel in Orlais, he happened to meet the man that would become his future patron, friend, and lover: Duke Bastien de Ghislain. The Duke de Ghislain would pay for Elyan's formal education as a bard at one of the colleges in Val Royeaux, but a scandal concocted by his patron's jealous mistress would drive him out of Orlais with nothing but his dulcimer and the clothes on his back. He spent several months on the run prior to being captured by Tevinter slavers in northern Nevarra.

Elyan is prototypically a bard: glamorous, talented, charming, and quick to deceive. He is also prototypically Orlesian: polite to a fault, even while stabbing you in the back (literally or figuratively).

**Kasaanda** | Qunari Mage ♀️ | Tal-Vashoth | Played by K

Kasaanda was born and raised in Par Vollen, and it was not until early childhood that she demonstrated her magical abilities by nearly burning down her bedroom and everyone inside it. She was promptly taken to be collared and trained as Saarebas, a Dangerous Thing, a weapon to be wielded by Arvaraad, her handler. A life of service to the Qun isn't easy under any circumstance, but for mages it is especially harsh -- she was expected to demonstrate no free will, no independent thought, and to be completely subservient to Arvaraad under threat of brutal punishment. On the one occasion she dared to ask her Arvaraad why the Tevinter mage they'd battled on Seheron did not have a collar as she did, her mouth was sewn shut with razor wire. Not long afterwards, she made a daring escape, and knew freedom from the Qun, but only for a few weeks before she was intercepted by slavers off a boat that had docked in Nevarra.

Kasaanda has much to unlearn from her time spent under the Qun. She still feels the need to be subservient, submissive, and quiet more often than not. She is still learning who she is, and for now all she knows for sure is that she is no longer Saarebas.

**Yariel of Clan Sabrae** | Elf Warrior ♂️ | Dalish Elf | Played by Amber

Yariel knew peace and love if not decadence during his youth: he was raised in a Dalish clan, nomadic elves that lived off the land and refused to bow to human lords as most others do by living in elven alienages or as a servant or slave. It was not an easy existence -- all resources were scarce and hard-won -- but love he had in spades, from his fellow clan members, from his Keeper Marethari, and from his elder brother, Ren. That all changed the day Ren disappeared. None of his clan members, not even Keeper Marethari, told him what became of his brother, and in their attempts to keep his heart from being poisoned by grief, it became poisoned by vengeance instead. Years later, the First of the clan, the blood mage Yariel long suspected of killing Ren, disappeared on the same day as all Clan Sabrae was murdered. He would spend the next five years trying to hunt her down, only to be captured by slavers in Nevarra.

Yariel wears the scars of all his losses like armor. He is hardened by grief and consumed by vengeance. The only thing left in him is his desire to see the First of his clan, the blood mage Merrill, pay for what she did.

* * *

# Non-Player Characters

(More will be added as they appear)

**Leander** | Elf Rogue ♂️ | Escaped Elven Slave  
Romanceable ❤️ | Combat Ally ⚔️

Leander was born a slave in the Tevinter city of Asariel to two other slaves owned by Magister Demetrius Ronin, and thus became his property at birth. Ronin was a cruel, capricious owner, even by Tevinter standards, known for abusing his slaves psychologically and physically, and regularly using their blood for magical rituals. Leander hated his life of servitude, and early on when he started showing signs of magical ability, he kept it hidden from his master. Mages were not legally allowed to be slaves in Tevinter, but he was sure that wouldn't stop Ronin from covering it up somehow and making his life worse for him and his parents.

He trained his magic in secret, by himself, with plans to burn Ronin's estate to the ground and free all his slaves. He was discovered, however, when a fellow slave ratted him out to the Magister. As punishment, Leander's parents were killed, and in an effort to maintain his investment, Leander himself was made Tranquil in a blood magic rite, but the spell was botched in an unusual way. Unbeknownst to Ronin, Leander's connection to the Fade was not completely severed -- while most Tranquil are forcibly made devoid of magical ability, dreams, and all emotion, Leander could still access some limited feeling -- and it was enough for him to still desire freedom.

He ran at first opportunity, and while initially Ronin caught up with him, Leander chanced upon Magister Dorian Pavus in Minrathous, who made Leander's status as Tranquil very, very public. It was enough to earn Leander his freedom, and enough for Leander to join Dorian's pet project, the Lucerni. Though Leander had little reason to love his country, he maintained his patriotism, and agreed with Dorian that it deserved a chance at redemption.

**Dorian Pavus** | Human Mage ♂️ | Tevinter Altus  
Not Romanceable 💔 | Combat Ally ⚔️

Dorian was the only son and heir of Magister Halward Pavus, who was by most accounts one of the more socially permissive members of the Magisterium -- opposed to slavery, opposed to the war between Tevinter and Qunandar, and lenient of non-mages that lived within Tevinter. Dorian showed great promise for magic very early on, to his father's delight. Unfortunately, he also showed great interest in other men, and none in marrying to carry on the Pavus legacy. It drove his normally permissive father to desperation, and one failed blood magic ritual to force Dorian to be straight later, he fled Tevinter and ran south.

In Ferelden, he ended up joining, and then becoming a key member of, the Inquisition, still in its infancy. He was instrumental in recruiting the rebel mages to the cause, and became very good friends with Lord Inquisitor Lannon of Clan Lavellan, who he cited as an inspiration and close confidante for many years folllowing. He even managed to find love in the unlikeliest of places within the Inquisition -- a Qunari mercenary, Ben-Hassrath turned Tal-Vashoth, known as the Iron Bull.

His years spent there were so formative that, after Inquisitor Lavellan formally disbanded the Inquisition, Dorian was inspired to create the Lucerni, a political group bent on the redemption and restoration of Tevinter via, among other things, the destruction of slavery and the end of the war with Qunandar. After the assassination of his father, he assumed his place in the Magisterium and, along with his long-time friend Maevaris Tilani, they set about to be the change they wanted to see in their homeland.


	2. Hellathen

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* * *

**Maevaris Tilani** | Human Mage ♀️ | Tevinter Altus  
Romanceable ❤️ | Combat Ally ⚔️

Maevaris was originally named Mattrinus, assumed male until around the age of twelve, when she gently corrected the assumption and gave herself a new name and began living as her proper gender. As the heiress of a powerful political house, this news went neither unkacknowledged nor unremarked upon. Among the most vociferous detractors was her mother; while her father, taciturn and kind, never much minded, her mother was furious, feeling personally slighted by Maevaris's identity, and her relationship with her daughter crumbled quickly.

Regardless, Maevaris proved herself a competent mage, and particularly talented at the difficult specialization of Spirit Healing. As an adolescent she spent much of her time doing charity work, healing slaves and the poor who had nowhere else to go for medical treatment. Her reputation of compassion and kindness earned her the nickname the Angel of Qarinus, a title she still carries to this day.

When she turned nineteen, her mother arranged a marriage for Maevaris behind her back to a dwarf, Thorold Tethras, to secure a political and economic alliance to the dwarven Ambassadoria. After all, her mother reasoned, if Maevaris was truly set on being a woman, why not take a husband? Her mother surely was not expecting for her match to work out so well -- not only did Maevars fall truly and sincerely in love with Thorold, she secured his fortunes and assets after Thorold tragically died some years later. His loss devastated her, but with the support of her good friend, Dorian Pavus, and the formation of the Lucerni to claim her attention, she managed to pick up the pieces and rededicate herself to a new purpose: the restoration and redemption of the Tevinter Imperium.

**Talgan Dunmorral** | Dwarf Warrior ♂️ | Surface Dwarf  
Romanceable ❤️ | Combat Ally ⚔️

Talgan's mother was a member of the noble caste in Orzammar, set to inherit a massive estate. His father, unfortunately, was casteless. If Talgan had been born a girl, he'd have secured his own future as well as that of his father, who would have been raised to a nobleman at his mother's side; unfortunately, he was a son rather than a daughter, and as a consequence his mother was stripped of her caste and disinherited. With nowhere else to go, she took her infant son and fled to the surface, hoping to eke out something resembling a life for them both, even if it meant she could never return to her family in Orzammar.

Although he and his mother got by well enough on the surface, she often spoke at length about the life and estate that she left behind, often to Talgan's chagrin. He had no memories of Orzammar like she did, and had never known luxury or nobility, so to him it felt like mourning for things he could never have. By late adolescence, he firmly and thoroughly resented Orzammar, and the system that would cast his mother out for having a child she refused to abandon in the Deep Roads.

Talgan proved to be a competent, even formidable fighter, and spent several years in a mercenary company. He didn't make much, but it was enough to sustain him and his now aging mother. Circumstance would take one of his company's jobs near Tevinter, where he met and promptly impressed one Magister Dorian Pavus by saving his life and the life of his elven "slave," Leander, from an assassination attempt. He was hired on the spot as the new head of Dorian's security, a position that paid much better and engendered loyalty -- and a place for his ailing mother to spend her twilight years.


	3. Banal nadas

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	4. Fen'Harel enasal

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	5. Somniari

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* * *

**Lannon of Clan Lavellan** | Elf Mage ♂️ | Lord Inquisitor  
Romanceable ❤️ | Non-Combat Ally 🕊️

Lannon was the First of Clan Lavellan, apprentice to the Keeper, when the Mage Rebellion began in Kirkwall and spread all over southern Thedas. He was sent as a spy to the Conclave at Haven, to learn of what they planned to do to ease the fighting between the mages and Templars, the violence of which had already begun to affect his clan.

He still doesn't remember much of what happened at the Conclave, only that when he woke up, he bore a mysterious mark on his hand and people were calling him the Herald of Andraste -- a title he vehemently denies to this day. Regardless, the mark on his hand gave him the power to seal the dangerous rifts all over Thedas, tears into the Fade that began to show up after the Conclave, and his efforts to heal the Veil and stabilize Thedas earned him the title of Inquisitor, head of the new Inquisition.

He was from the start very reluctant in his role. He had little reason to trust humans, especially ones aligned with the Chantry that had slaughtered his people in the Dales only a few centuries ago. Still, he understood the importance of the Inquisition in its current incarnation, and with the help of friends and allies was able to seal the Breach, end the Orlesian civil war, and kill a magister from ancient Tevinter who would have entered the Fade physically to become a god. He even managed to fall in love with an elven apostate, Solas, who had joined the Inquisition to aid them with his magical expertise. The affection was one-sided. Though Solas knew of Lannon's attraction to him, it was never fully returned, though they proved to be very close. Close enough that there were rumors that Solas had broken his heart and somehow removed his vallaslin... and his hand.


	6. Dirthara-ma

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* * *

**Leliana** | Human Rogue ♀️ | Divine Victoria  
Romanceable ❤️ | Non-Combat Ally 🕊️

As a child, Leliana was raised by her mother, a servant in Orlais who had been born in Ferelden. At a young age Leliana was scouted by a bard named Marjolaine, who saw potential in her musical talents for singing and lute, and trained her up as a protege. Leliana was young and impressionable enough to love Marjolaine deeply, and naive enough not to be aware of how Marjolaine had been using her. They had a bitter falling out after Leliana was captured and tortured, and she went to serve the Maker in a Ferelden Chantry, where she met the Hero of Ferelden at the start of the Fifth Blight.

The effect the Hero had on her life cannot be understated. In addition to becoming a beloved friend, he convinced her to spare Marjolaine's life when she hunted Leliana down in Denerim. She was also there when the Hero made the ultimate sacrifice, giving up his own life to kill the Archdemon and end the Blight, a personal tragedy that once again drove her back to the Chantry, although this time she did not find the same sense of peace.

When Cassandra Pentaghast, a Seeker of the Chantry, came to her for aid in forming the second Inquisition in response to the mage rebellion, she agreed to be their Spymaster. It was where she eventually met the man who would be Inquisitor, Lannon of Clan Lavellan, with whom she would form a strong friendship. It was only through his influence that she was elected as Divine, and only through his example that she used her newfound power to eradicate the Circles in southern Thedas and allow mages to govern themselves. Divine Victoria has been a controversial figure to say the least, and she has quelled several uprisings against her rule, considered radical by many. Regardless, Leliana has proven herself an ally to mages and to other races, and has rededicated the Chantry to its original purpose -- charity.

**Zevran Arainai** | Elf Rogue ♂️ | Antivan Wayfarer  
Not Romanceable 💔 | Combat Ally ⚔️

Zevran was purchased off the Antivan slave market as a young child and recruited by the Antivan Crows, a notorious guild of assassins. If nothing else, he was very good at it -- he took to training well, and survived the infamously harrowing torture training the Crows employed to see if their assassins were truly ready for anything. It wasn't an easy life, but he had something resembling friends, and something resembling comfort, though he knew the Crows could rip it all away at any moment.

The last job the Crows ever gave him turned out to be the most transformative of Zevran's life. He was hired to kill a Grey Warden, the Grey Warden, the man who would come to be known as the Hero of Ferelden. He showed mercy on his would-be assassin, to Zevran's surprise, and even recruited him to help him in defeating the Blight. Neither of them could have possibly anticipated falling in love with each other, but that was precisely what happened. Zevran had a few months of traveling and adventuring with his Warden until the Battle of Denerim.

Zevran was there when the only man he'd ever loved gave his own life to end the Blight, and while he couldn't fault him for an act of such selflessness, it did leave Zevran absolutely distraught. In the fifteen years following the end of the Blight, Zevran travelled to fill the hole the Hero left behind in his heart, evading the Crows who were seeking to recapture him and making a living where and how he could. It wasn't until he was summoned to Orlais by another compaion of the Warden, Leliana -- who was Divine now, of all things -- that he found a new purpose. She asked him to come with her to Tevinter, where an upstart group of rebels called the Lucerni were freeing slaves and attempting to restore Tevinter. He likes to think the Warden would approve.


	7. Vir suledin

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	8. Theneras

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	9. Bal emma mala dir

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	10. Ghilas

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* * *

**Fenris** | Elf Warrior ♂️ | Escaped Elven Slave  
Not Romanceable 💔 | Combat Ally ⚔️

Leto was born in Tevinter, his mother and sister both slaves who worked in an orange grove near Minrathous. He was an active child, fierce and loyal to his family, and when a powerful Magister arranged a contest of arms where the prize could be anything the victor could name, he was quick to join, and to win, and all he wanted was freedom for his mother and sister.

Fenris does not remember any of it. Though he had won freedom for his family, the cost was undergoing a painful, dangerous procedure that burned raw lyrium into his flesh, giving him remarkable combat abilities, but burning away everything that happened before the ritual. Once he survived, the Magister Danarius enslaved him as a personal bodyguard, giving him his new name, Fenris, "Little Wolf." Without any memories of his life before, slavery was all Fenris knew, and it wasn't until a trip to Seheron that he was reminded of the taste of freedom and broke away from his master.

He found himself in the Free Marches, dogged by his former master at all turns, but found friendship and support in the form of Levan Hawke, who would come to be known as the Champion of Kirkwall. With the Champion's help, he was able to kill Danarius and build a new life in Kirkwall, one he found himself wanting to share with Hawke. He never thought he'd ever come to love a mage, not after what they'd done to him, but with Hawke he was able to heal some of the emotional wounds of the past, and Fenris fell in love with him. When Hawke left for the Anderfels after aiding the Inquisition, Fenris split off to indulge his hobby of killing slavers, and eventually found the mysterious rebel group called the Lucerni. He was intrigued from the otuset -- after all, there was no cause dearer to him than the eradication of slavery. Whether or not Tevinter could be redeemed from its sins was another matter.


	11. Banalhan

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	12. Mala taren aravas

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	13. Melana en athim las enaste

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	14. Andaran atish'an

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	15. Boranehn

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* * *

# Kasaanda

The first time she sees him, she is too young to remember. He, on the other hand, will remember every detail.

“She is small,” he says.

“She is imekari,” the Tamassran answers. “Of course she’s small.”

She grasps his finger when he reaches out to touch her arm. A reflex, he knows. The knowing does not change the way it makes his heart lurch behind his ribs.

“You really should not have come,” the tamassran says. “It is not wise.”

“The Arigena says–”

“I know what she says,” the Tamassran interjects. “She is soft in these things. Soft on you.”

He does not answer. The Tamassran clucks her tongue, chiding, but he knows it’s only rumor that fuels her disapproval. It is the role of Tamassrans to listen and to speak, which often gives way to gossip. _Asit tal-eb._

He eyes her. He does not recognize this Tamassran. “You are not the one who bore her,” he says.

“You would remember if I was the one who laid with you, Karashok,” she answers, smirking and sly. He schools his face to hide his reaction. “And she certainly would not have come about if you had.”

Ah, Karashok thinks. This one is aqun-athlok. He is always the last to notice these things.

“Do you know her dam?”

“I know fifteen generations of her dams _and_ sires,” she says, “and you will not.”

“I have no intention of going to find her if that is what worries you,” Karashok answers, frowning. “I just want to know if she is well.”

The Tamassran clucks her tongue again, still disapproving, but – and perhaps he is imagining it – with a softer edge. “She is well,” she answers, eventually. “And you are too sentimental about these things.”

Karashok knows that she is right. He stares down at the little imekari and he _feels_. Deeply, profoundly. He cannot help himself. He sees everything in her that is in him. The bright white hair, so like his own. The shape of her chin. The color of her eyes. He sees the nubs on her heard where her horns will grow in and wonders if they will have the gentle arc, like–

“She is not _yours_ ,” the Tamassran says.

“She only exists because of me,” he protests.

“And because of the Tamassran who bore her,” she says. “And the matriarchy who arranged the match. And the Arigena who oversaw the process. And Ashkaari Koslun who showed us how best to make her. She belongs to all of us, Karashok. _Asit tal-eb_.”

He purses his lips. He places one hand on her belly; she laughs and kicks her legs. Karashok feels like he might melt.

“I just wanted to see her,” he says, weakly, knowing that this reason is not good enough. The Tamassran is right, of course. She belongs to the Qun, not to him. He who takes more than what is his has taken from another. This is not the way of things.

His thumping heart does not agree. He swallows down ideas for which he does not have the words. It is enough to have seen her, he tells himself. It must be.

“Now you’ve seen her,” the Tamassran says. “And now you should go. And you should not come back.”

* * *

He comes back, of course. This time, she will remember, though only a little, and only as an indistinct blur of childhood memory.

She will remember that he is tall, and that he does not have horns. She will remember that he was arguing with Tama when she came out into the large entryway full of chairs and toys. She will remember that when he saw her, he stopped talking and stared.

“Imekari!” Tama says, rushing toward her. “What happened to your hand?”

“I touched the cooking pot, Tama.”

Tama looks beleaguered. “Why did you do _that?_ ”

“I wanted to know what hot felt like. It feels bad.”

She beams at Tama, proud of what she has learned. Tama does not share the sentiment. She picks her up and balances her on one hip. “Koslun says that struggle is an illusion. This is, I think, proof positive that he never cared for a toddler.”

“Is that–?”

Tama turns, letting her get a good look at the stranger. She knows by his sword and his vitaar that he is with the antaam, though not much besides.

“Where did your horns go?” she asks him at once.

“Imekari!” Tama says, with that very particular voice that means she has done something bad.

But he does not look as angry as Tama. He grins at her, leans forward, wiggles his fingers in her face. “They were broken off in battle with a great _ataashi_ ,” he says, and she gasps.

“You fought a dragon? Did you touch it? Was it hot? I know what hot feels like!”

Tama continues not to be impressed, but the stranger chuckles. It’s a low rumble in his chest. She likes the sound it makes, she thinks. She will remember the sound of it, or at least that she liked it.

“Such wisdom,” he says. “You’ll be Ariqun one day, I’m sure.”

“Does Ariqun get to touch many things?”

“Enough,” Tama says, turning her body so that she has to crane her neck to look at him. “You should not have come here, Karashok.”

“I am Karasaad now,” he corrects.

Tama’s expression is pinched. “Congratulations on the promotion,” she says. “Now leave.”

“I just wanted to see her,” he says. “Please, Tamassran. It’s been years. I just want to know if she’s happy, if she’s safe.”

“Of course she’s safe, she’s my charge,” Tama says. “And as for happy–”

“Cooking pots are very hot,” she interjects.

Tama sighs heavily. “Make of that what you will.”

“What role do you think she will fill?” the stranger, Karasaad, asks. “Will she be Tamassran like you? Will she go into the priesthood? The field?”

“She’s four years old, Karasaad. It will be many years yet before this lump of clay becomes a brick.”

“But surely you have an inkling. She’s so curious – a scholar, maybe?”

“I cannot discuss these things with you.”

“I just want to know–”

“Where to find her when she’s grown?” Tama barks. “What will that accomplish? What do you hope to gain from this endeavor, Karasaad?”

The stranger, Karasaad, hesitates and has no answer. He looks desperately from Tama to her, as if hoping to find some answer on her small face.

“Tama, what’s wrong?” she asks, and tugs on a lock of hair that had fallen loose from her bun. “Why are you angry?” As ever, she cannot resist investigating things that are dangerous.

But the Tamassran is patient. She takes a breath and pats her white hair. “I’m not angry, imekari,” she says. “I’m just disappointed.”

She shoots Karasaad an icy look. There are few enough Qunari who don’t fear the wrath of a Tamassran, and Karasaad looks appropriately cowed.

“Go,” Tama tells him. “And if you know what’s good for you, don’t come back.”

* * *

He comes back. The Tamassran is so angry she nearly throws her chair at his head. And yet, on that cool spring morning two years later, he says three words that still her rage before she lets loose the breath she’d drawn to scream at him:

“I’m being deployed.”

It is, the Tamassran thinks, like being a sail suddenly bereft of wind. She stares at him in quiet astonishment. The antaam does not deploy needlessly. If he is leaving, it must be for very good reason.

He must be all but assured of his own death.

She releases her breath in a long sigh, mutters one of the Cantos under her breath. _Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra._

“I know you are angry,” he says. “I just… once more? Please, Tamassran. Before…”

“I should take you straight to the Arishok and let him know about this,” she says. There’s no venom in her words. “Koslun, _fine_. But keep it brief. It’s nearly time to put them down, and I don’t want her getting excited by stories about dragons, Karasaad.”

He almost tells her that he is no longer Karasaad, that he has been promoted again, but he does not want to press his luck. He smiles, or at least attempts something that approximates a smile, and follows her when she rises and heads into the playroom.

The room is lit only by the large, roaring hearth dominating the northern wall. There are a half-dozen other children scattered around, some playing with building blocks, one playing with toy soldiers, one fast asleep on a pillow. His eye is drawn immediately to snowy white hair, to the little girl staring intently at a large picture book open on her lap.

“Brief,” she reminds him, voice sharp but not unkind. He nods reverently, approaches. His face is controlled, but his thumping heart betrays him. He knows she is still so young, that she will likely not remember this. But he wants her to. He wants her to remember something of him. It is a selfish wish, he knows, a flaw of his character.

Fine, then, he is flawed. _Asit tal-eb_. Perhaps she inherited his weakness and will appreciate a memory of the man who sired her. He hopes she will.

She looks up at him when he gets close enough. Her eyes light with recognition. “Ataashi!” she says, pointing to his head – or more specifically, at his lack of horns. He smiles weakly. It would be good, he thinks, to be remembered by his daughter as Ataashi. He kneels down next to her.

“Hello again, imekari.”

She sets the book down and clambers to a stand. When he’s crouched, she is just tall enough to reach up both hands and pat across his head, as if verifying that there are truly no horns on his head. His heart twists painfully, but he commits every moment to memory. He will remember this. He will remember her. _Daughter_ , his mind says. _Kadan_ , his heart answers.

“Did it hurt when your horns broke off?” she asks him.

“Oh, yes,” he says, and forces a smile.

She nods, her face reflecting as much sage wisdom as a six-year-old can muster. “That is how you learn not to do it again,” she says. He laughs loudly. She looks confused at first, and then pleased with herself. She does not understand why she has made him laugh, but is happy that she did. What a remarkable child, he thinks. How wonderful it is to have had a part in her creation.

“Tama was very mad at you last time,” she says.

“She was,” he agrees, and sits down on the rug in front of the fire with her.

“Did you touch something you were not supposed to?”

“Not precisely,” he answers, “but you are close. Your Tama does not think I should talk to you.”

“Why?” she asks, predictably.

He opens his mouth, shuts it. What words are there that could answer her question? How could he translate the complicated combination of rules made and rules broken into an explanation she could comprehend?

He couldn’t, he decides, so instead he reaches into his bag.

“I have a present for you,” he says.

“Wow!” she says before he’s even pulled it out. She has likely never received one before.

“You must keep it safe for me while I am gone,” he says, and hands it to her. “Be careful with it. It is precious.”

The dragon tooth is perhaps as large as his hand, certainly larger than hers. She breathes in when she sees it. “ _Wow,_ ” she says again, with more intensity. Then it seems to connect in her mind. “Ataashi!”

“That’s right,” he says, and smiles at her. “She may have taken my horns, but I took her tooth, so we’re even.”

He winks and pinches her cheek. She laughs and wiggles away, but doesn’t let go of the tooth. In fact, she’s gripping it hard against her chest.

“I like it very much,” she says. “Does it hurt to touch the pointy end?” Without waiting for an answer, she presses it to her palm.

He had, of course, anticipated this. He remembers well the impulse that had her touching the cooking pot to see what hot felt like, and had blunted the sharp tip. She seems disappointed when it doesn’t break her skin

“Hm,” she says. “Dragons must not be so tough after all.”

“I would like for you to hold onto it,” he says. “I’m not…”

Not what? Not coming back? Not going to see you again? He does not know how to talk to children in the way of a Tamassran – gentle and soft, hiding ugly truths with pretty lies. He did not think he’d ever have to.

She stares at him with eyes that are too big and too wise for a child so young. He swallows down a knot of emotion. Another flaw. _Asit tal-eb_.

“Hold onto it,” he says. “Remember me, imekari, if you can. Remember Sten, who gave it to you.”

She nods slowly.

* * *

She does, in fact, hold onto it. For two long years she never parts with it, steals glances at it when she knows no one else is looking. She remembers the man who gave it to her, wonders if the story of his lack of horns is true.

And then one night, in her dreams, she starts a fire and burns down her bedroom.

She does not see the tooth again.

* * *

# Elyan

In the backwoods border town Elyan once called home, mornings in autumn were stunning. He has vivid memories of looking out the window of his room and seeing the sunrise coming over the Frostback Mountains, setting the red-gold treetops on fire. He remembers being sure that there was never anything in the world more beautiful.

And then he saw _Val Royeaux_ in autumn, and was reminded for neither the first time nor the last that everything was prettier in the capitol.

“Come back to bed,” Bastien says behind him. “I can’t properly admire you when you’re backlit by the window.”

Elyan turns, grinning. “You know, you don’t have to keep trying to seduce me,” he says, but obligingly comes walking back toward the bed. “We’re already sleeping together.”

“Nonsense,” Bastien answers, and once Elyan is back in bed, throws an arm around his shoulders. He has a stack of papers in his lap that he’s only half paying attention to. “I never pass the opportunity to remark upon something lovely.”

Elyan adores Bastien. He wouldn’t say so out loud – at least not in those precise words – because he knows it’s not his place. But he does; he can’t help himself. Bastien has given him everything he ever wanted and some things Elyan hadn’t even realized he’d needed. A formal education, a patronage, security, opportunity, a safe introduction to the Game. He owes the man everything. Some days he wishes he weren’t _just_ a bard. Some days…

“My Lord Ghislain? You’ve received – oh!”

It’s Bernice, one of Bastien’s maids, who had clearly not been expecting to walk into this bedroom to find both her Lord and his bard naked and still smelling of sex.

Elyan is for a moment too stunned to move. He’d never really been caught in this position before. As he’s trying to decide how best to react–

“Yes, my dear?” Bastien replies, mild as a spring morning, not at all like a man who’s wearing no more clothes than the Maker gave him when he came out from his mother. “Received a what?”

Bernice is red-faced and staring hard at the marble floor. “A summons from the Empress,” she stammers, feet shuffling, hands wringing the paper clutched in both hands. “The Council of Heralds is convening an emergency meeting.”

Bastien sighs, sounding tired. “Let me guess,” he says, “the civil war?”

“I’d never deign to read My Lord’s letters,” Bernice answers at once.

“No? Then I suppose it’s a good thing you’re a maid and not a bard.”

Elyan stifles a laugh. He curls his legs up a bit to maintain some semblance of modesty – mostly for Bernice’s sake, at this point – but stays recumbent on the bed while Bastien sets aside his letters and stands up.

Then immediately collapses, taking down the bedside table next to him with a loud clatter.

“My Lord!” Bernice shrieks.

“Bastien!” Elyan says at nearly the same moment, vaulting off the bed and to his side.

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Bastien is immediately insisting, though when Elyan leans down to help him stand back up, he takes the outstretched hand only to collapse again. Elyan only barely manages to catch him.

“This is your fault!” Bernice hisses at Elyan. “You should not have exerted him!”

“ _My_ fault?” Elyan returns, aghast. “Do you think I’m so talented in bed that I can make a man forget how to walk?”

“Enough, the pair of you!” Bastien barks. “I’m just dizzy, that’s all. Elyan, fetch me a robe, for the Maker’s sake!”

Elyan fetches Bastien’s robe, and one for himself. With Bernice’s help, they get him into the small armchair by the armoire, where Bastien takes a few deep breaths and shuts his eyes.

“My Lord,” Bernice says, “let me fetch you some tea. Or I could run out and get a tonic? Perhaps Madame de Fer could recommend a healer from the Circle–”

“Oh, _do_ stop fussing, Bernice,” Bastien says shortly. “If I need a healer, I’ll ask for one.”

Bernice at once looks like she’s on the verge of tears. She always has been overly fond of Bastien, and taken his criticisms too harshly. A look of regret passes briefly over Bastien’s face.

“I’m fine,” he says, more coolly. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to my wife. And especially not to Vivienne. Maker knows she’ll have a conniption.”

Bernice sniffs, still distraught to have upset him.

“Go on, girl,” Bastien continues. “And leave the letter.”

“Yes, My Lord,” she whimpers. She leaves the letter on the bedside table (once Elyan sets it upright again) and shuffles out of the room. The door clicks shut behind her.

“Bastien–” Elyan begins.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Bastien interjects.

“You lost control of your legs,” Elyan says. “ _Twice_. This could be serious. Worse, it could be poison. If this is part of the Game–”

“It’s not part of the Game,” Bastien says. His voice is uncharacteristically grim. “I know precisely what this is.”

“You what?”

* * *

“He _what?_ ”

“He said he’s _dying_.”

Three weeks ago, Elyan could not have named, even with a knife to his throat, a single reason he’d ever willingly talk to Vivienne de Fer. The woman despises him and has no compunctions in showing it, and it’s the least Elyan can do to return the favor.

But there is one thing they have in common, despite how much it annoys her, and that is Bastien. They both love him, and he knows that if anyone in Thedas would be willing to move heaven and earth to help Bastien de Ghislain, it would be Vivienne. And she’s a _mage_ , so perhaps moving and heaven and earth is within her grasp.

Not that it had been easy to get her to talk to him. She hadn’t responded to his first three letters requesting her to come back to Orlais – she’d lately been gone more often than not, having recently secured a position with this new Inquisition, whatever that was – and only when Elyan had used Bastien’s signet ring to seal it had she finally bothered to read it and reply.

“He said the same affliction killed his mother, and her mother, and nearly everyone in his matrilineal line. He called it _la mort lente_.”

Vivienne sits back in her chair, clearly reeling from the news.

Bernice refills Vivienne’s teacup. “My Lord Bastien is too good for this world,” she sniffs. The fine china rattles in her trembling hands. “I can hardly believe he’s being taken from us so soon…”

“There’s got to be something we can do,” Elyan protests. “He seems resigned to his fate, but that doesn’t mean we have to be. Vivienne, isn’t there anyone in the Circle who might know how to heal this? I know you’re an alchemist; perhaps–”

“There’s neither a spell nor a potion that could cure _la mort lente_ , you foolish boy,” Vivienne hisses at him. Elyan stops, startled by the ferocity in her words. “Have you never heard of the disease? It’s incurable!”

In truth, Elyan hadn’t heard of it. He assumed the name _mort lente_ had been less a clinical term and more an overwrought Orlesian name for some other disease. It hadn’t occurred to him that Bastien might actually be _right_ , that he really _was_ dying, and there truly was nothing to be done about it.

The thought of it makes him sick to his stomach. The pastries Bernice had laid out for the pair of them suddenly look a lot less appetizing.

“It’s a wasting disease,” Vivienne snarls. “It slowly destroys the mind’s control over bodily functions – first control of large muscle groups, then fine motor skills, then one’s ability to talk and blink and _breathe_ –”

Vivienne covers her mouth with one hand and turns away. Elyan has never seen her so emotional before. She’d always been the picture of self-possession. Seeing her borderline hysterical almost shreds Elyan’s already fraying nerves. _Maker_ , he thinks, _is this really it? Is Bastien really going to die?_

After a few seconds of silence, Bernice bursts into tears and races off the veranda, the teapot shattering to pieces on the stone. Neither Elyan nor Vivienne acknowledge her departure.

“So…” Elyan begins, faltering, “there’s – there’s really nothing to be done?”

Vivienne doesn’t answer. Her hand is still clasped over her mouth, eyes shut.

“How long does he have?”

“A year at most,” she answers, hoarse. “And no, there’s nothing to be done. Unless we can somehow make him twenty years younger–”

She stops again. Her eyes narrow.

Elyan stares at her. He’s perplexed, but mostly he’s sad. He’s still reckoning with the idea that Bastien is dying. Really dying. And there’s nothing he can do.

“I have to go back to Skyhold,” Vivienne says suddenly, standing up so abruptly that the metal legs of her chair skid loudly across the stone.

“Go?” Elyan says at once. “What? Madame, Bastien is _dying!_ Shouldn’t you–?”

“Do _not_ presume what I should do,” she snarls at him. She’s always been taller than him, but while he’s sitting and she’s wearing three-inch heels, she positively _looms_ above him. He feels silly and small and young. Moreso than he usually does whenever he’s around her. “You are his bard, but I am his _mistress_. How quickly you forget!”

Elyan watches her leave the room, teeth grit. Of course she’d run off, back to the Inquisition, while Bastien wastes away. Maker forbid she show any semblance of empathy, even as her lover dies!

“Fine,” Elyan hisses, mostly to himself. If she’s not going to be there for Bastien, _someone_ has to be.

* * *

It’s one thing to say it and another thing to do it, of course. He can want to be with Bastien as much as possible, knows it is the good and correct thing, but doing it hurts. Watching him stumble when he walks, watching his hands shake when he tries to drink his tea, watching him spend more and more time asleep.

Even worse, Elyan has to watch him write his own Will. Elyan wants nothing more than to keep Bastien distracted, to spend every morning in the garden and every night in bed, to give him as much joy as he possibly can in these last few months, but Bastien keeps asking him these horrible questions – where do you want to live once I’m gone, Elyan? Would you be amenable to being in another nobleman’s service once I’m dead, Elyan? Do you want to be set up with part of my estate after I pass, Elyan?

What is he supposed to say? It tears him up to even think of an answer. But Bastien keeps asking, keeps getting his affairs in order, keeps having longer and more thoughtful conversations about death and the Maker.

Vivienne is not present for any of it, which makes Elyan nearly as angry as he is sad.

“You’re very serious these days, little lark.”

Elyan looks up across the dining room table. Bastien is still feeding himself, barely, but Bernice is standing at the ready to help wipe any spillage from his chin. Elyan hates to watch his hands shake.

“So are you, Bastien.”

He chuckles, wheezing. “Yes,” he says, “but I’m the only one between us who’s dying.”

Elyan flinches, stares down at his meal.

“I know you’re unhappy,” Bastien says. “I only hope it’s because you’ll miss me, and not because you’re cross.”

He looks back up at once, heart lurching.

“No, of course not,” he says. “I’m not cross, Bastien. I just…”

“It’s all right,” Bastien assures him gently. “Situations reversed, I suspect I’d be much the same. I remember watching my own mother while she…”

A tense, painful silence lapses between them. Bernice sniffles.

“Why don’t we go see an opera tomorrow night?” Bastien asks. “I think it would do me good to get out of the house.”

“I have a bit of studying to do,” Elyan says, “but I can clear up an evening.”

Bastien smiles, looking tired. Elyan smiles back.

* * *

If he’d known it would be the last conversation he’d ever have with Bastien, Elyan might have said something more profound. Perhaps some of the words that had been caught in his throat for so many years. _I love you, Bastien. I have loved you for a long time._

But these things are not always fair. Theatricality and showmanship are the way of Orlais, but death operates by its own rules. People who are tremendous and important in your life will sometimes die quietly, miserably, when you aren’t even present, without even giving you a chance to say goodbye.

Bastien leaves Elyan’s life as inauspiciously as he entered it, and it is not fair, and Elyan is not all right, and nothing will ever be the same.

* * *

# Sabrae

“Take it from me, _lethallan_ ,” Fenarel says, “lying with a mage will be the best experience of your _life_.”

Yariel of Sabrae Clan is twenty years old, and is almost certain that Fenarel is full of shit. He claims that he slept with the Second of Naran Clan, but Yariel has seen Naran Clan’s Second; she’s tall and dark-skinned and way too beautiful to give a dope like Fenarel a second glance.

This is all beside the point, of course.

“They’re _wild_ in bed,” Fenarel insists. He’s at Yariel’s elbow, chirping as incessantly and obnoxiously as a bird. “Their magic _reacts_ when they – you know.”

“Uh-huh,” Yariel answers, making sure not to sound impressed, because he isn’t. He’s not impressed one bit with Fenarel’s bullshit.

Lavellan Clan’s First, on the other hand…

“That’s how you know you’re doing a good job. Get them to spray frost everywhere.”

It’s day four of the Arlathvhen. Every clan in Thedas has gathered on the outskirts of Verchiel, setting up the tents and aravels and vendor stalls and great, towering canopies to cover the feasting areas. It’s a riot of sights and sounds and smells – roasting meat, lowing halla, lanterns enchanted to burn different colors, singing, thudding drums…

The last time Yariel came to the Arlathvhen, he was only 10, and couldn’t properly appreciate it for what it was. Now that he’s older, he’s finding a lot to like about it.

Especially the First of Lavellan Clan.

“Do it, coward,” Fenarel says after Yariel’s extended silence.

Yariel shoves him, laughing. “Shut up.”

“He’s cute. And he keeps looking back at you. Just do it; the Arlathvhen only happens once a decade!”

That much at least was true, at least. Well, mostly. Very technically, the Arlathvhen happens every _five_ years, but only the Keepers and some Hahrens attended the smaller ones in between the big ones, which came once every ten years.

And he supposes it’s also true that Lavellan Clan’s First – Lannon, Yariel wanted to say, but he isn’t sure – keeps looking back his way. He can’t quite read the expression on his face from the distance. He hopes it’s longing and not suspicion.

“And he’s been working at the healing tent all day, so you know he wants to cut loose,” Fenarel adds.

Also true. Firsts and Seconds usually got relegated to the healing tents – a staple and a necessity of any Arlathvhen. It wasn’t a real party until someone got kicked by a halla or stabbed in a drunken duel or thrown off an aravel, after all. But it couldn’t be fun, being stuck healing all day while everyone else was at a story circle or feasting or dancing.

Maybe Yariel _would_ talk to him.

You know, eventually. Lannon is very pretty. Kind of intimidating, too, though less because he’s pretty and more because he’s a mage. But surely Yariel could forgive him that much for at least a night.

Or maybe two or three, depending on how things went.

“Do it do it do it do it do it,” Fenarel begins chanting, only stopping when Yariel yelled over him:

“Creators, fine! Has anyone ever told you how annoying you are?”

“So ungrateful! Make sure to thank me later to make up for your bad attitude.”

Yariel socks him in the shoulder. Fenarel smacks him upside the head. Since Ren died, Fenarel is the closest thing Yariel has to a big brother, and it shows.

Yariel hops over the fence he’d been leaning on, shoves his hands in his pockets, and goes to talk to Lannon.

He only gets prettier as Yariel gets closer. Very pale, with white-blonde hair tied into a messy braid, clear blue eyes, and a vallaslin honoring Mythal – the trunk of her tree goes down his nose, the roots spread out at his chin, and the branches sweep across his forehead. He isn’t dressed especially well, though if Yariel were going to spend his day around a bunch of bleeding, puking, drunk elves, he wouldn’t wear his best either. He seems to realize Yariel is approaching just as he starts casting healing magic on a young girl with a bloodied knee.

“Oh,” he says, sounding surprised, delighted, and panicked all at the same time. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Yariel answers. “You’re the First of Lavellan Clan, right?”

“Yeah! I mean, yes. Lannon. That’s me. You’re–?”

“Yariel. Sabrae Clan.”

“I saw you watching,” Lannon says, then hurries to add, “I didn’t mind! I mean, I was watching, too! Er, watching you watching me. It was mutual. Watching.” He is rapidly devolving into babbling.

“You’re healing my boot,” the girl says.

“Sorry,” Lannon answers, judging by the angle of his head, directly to the boot.

Yariel leans his hip against the nearby table, covered with various balms and salves and bandages. “So your Keeper’s got you on healing tent duty, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah…” Lannon sighs. “She wants me trained up as a spirit healer, so I’m pretty much stuck here the whole time.”

“The _whole_ time?”

Lannon finishes healing the girl’s knee. She hops off the stool she’d been perched on and flexes her leg experimentally as Lannon looks up at Sabrae from where he was still crouched on the ground.

“Seem to be plenty of other Firsts and Seconds around to heal is all I’m saying,” Yariel says, glancing around the tent, and in fairness, that was true. “I’m sure no one would even notice if you slipped out for a little while.”

Lannon is staring at him like a person who had never dared to break a Keeper’s command before but is excited by the mere possibility of it. He stands, chews his lip nervously, wipes his hands off on the towel tucked into his belt.

“I don’t know,” he hedges. “Keeper Deshanna’s kind of a hardass… if she found out I ditched–”

“So don’t let her find out,” Yariel insists, looming forward and over him. “You like dancing?”

* * *

He does, as it turns out, like dancing.

Or at the very least, he likes dancing with Yariel, because they stay for several hours at the drum circle, stopping only intermittently, and only long enough to drink the sweet fruit wine brewed by one of the clan masters. Yariel feels like he could watch Lannon twist and spin for hours around the drum circle fire, and he does.

Yariel is no longer confused why damn near a quarter of the women in Sabrae Clan came back pregnant after the last Arlathvhen. The atmosphere lends itself to sex and romance, moreso as the sun gets lower. The rumble of constant voices dies down to muttering, the bonfires burn low, the halla low in their pens, and the stars come out.

They dance until the drummers stop and find a nearby hill with dew-soaked grass. It saturates the back of Yariel’s shirt but he didn’t mind – in fact, it feels amazing, nearly sizzling on his heated skin. This far south and this late, the constellations are mostly swallowed up by the pulsing blue-and-green aurora, the first thing their eyes find when they collapse side by side.

“Creators,” Lannon laughs, breathless. “Every part of me hurts!”

“Well, you did do a _lot_ of dancing.”

“Don’t sound so admonishing. As I recall you were quite enjoying the show.”

Yariel grins, of course, but doesn’t dare deny it.

“Glad you slipped away?” he asks.

“ _So_ glad,” Lannon answers. “I don’t normally do this kind of thing. The Keeper keeps me on a tight leash most of the time.”

“The Arlathvhen only happens once a decade,” Yariel says, and he will die before admitting to Fenarel that he’s using his line. “Everyone deserves the opportunity to cut loose here.”

Lannon giggles drunkenly. It’s a nice, but dizzy sound. Yariel grins at him, though with only starlight and the distant torches of the Arlathvhen to light it, he doubts Lannon can see it.

“So where does Lavellan Clan roam?” he asks.

“The Free Marches, mostly,” Lannon answers, yawning and stretching. Yariel can just barely make out the dark silhouette of the mage as his back arches off the grass, which is good, because he likes the sight of it a lot. “Skirting along the borders between Kirkwall, Starkhaven, and Tantervale.”

“That’s pretty far north,” Yariel says. “You’re not worried about slavers?”

“They mostly stick to Nevarra and Rivain. That’s what the Keeper says, anyhow. And most shems avoid the borderlands so they don’t start a political conflict.” He pauses. “What about Sabrae Clan? Where do you roam?”

“Ferelden, up until a few years ago. We went west after–”

Yariel’s words falter halfway up his throat, because the rest of that sentence is, of course, _after Ren died_. Nothing had been the same since Ren died. He’d been such a huge presence in the clan, everyone’s friend, the best storyteller, the up-and-coming hunter. Even six years later, Sabrae Clan feels bereft. It’s why they’d left Ferelden, and why the story circles were so much more subdued.

“After…?” Lannon prompts, when Yariel’s silence stretches too long.

Yariel’s eyes snap back into focus, and he does what he always does to avoid uncomfortable topics: he lies preposterously.

“After that High Dragon swooped down and ate our last Keeper,” he says, mildly.

Lannon laughs loudly. Yariel really likes his laugh. “Liar!” he says.

“Creators strike me down if I’m lying,” Yariel answers, all earnestness. “Ate her right up in one big bite.”

“And I suppose you single-handedly felled it to avenge her, did you?”

“Well, of course,” Yariel says, sitting upright and leaning back on his palms so he can grin wolfishly down at Lannon. “I had to defend the clan.”

Lannon sits up, too, and even in the darkness, Yariel can see his blue eyes glimmer mischievously. “Oh, I _see_ ,” he returns. “Had I known I’d been dancing with a mighty dragonslayer all this time, I’d have accorded certain favors.”

The energy of the conversation has changed a bit, Yariel can tell. It’s still lighthearted, but he can feel the sudden undercurrent of tension.

The night is dark, the grass is soft, and Lannon is pretty. Yariel would have to be an idiot not to take advantage.

“Such as?”

And then Lannon is straddling Yariel’s lap. Certainly not the worst thing that had ever been there. He smells like cooling sweat and sweet wine. Yariel’s hands settle at once on Lannon’s hips.

“Why don’t we go back to my tent and I’ll show you?”

Yariel grins. Gone is the shy, stuttering First from a few hours ago. What a difference some dancing and wine makes.

They make it back to the tent in record time.

* * *

Yariel learns a lot that night.

He learns that the lingering suspicion he’d had for the past few years that he’s bisexual is definitely, definitely true. He learns that a man brings a different, but still wholly agreeable, presence to a shared tent. He learns that Lannon is a clumsy-sweet kisser but a _very_ enthusiastic bed partner. The whole evening is going very well, all things considered.

Until the end of the night, when Yariel learns one more thing: that Fenarel had actually been right about bedding mages. Except in this specific case, rather than spraying frost, when they collapse beside each other panting on the bedroll, the _entire top half of the tent is on fire_.

  
The very last thing Yariel learns that night, after an hour of frantically putting the fire out and stopping it from spreading to other tents, is that he is never, ever, ever going to sleep with a mage _ever again_.


	16. Banal'ras

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	17. Din'anshiral

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	18. Halam'shivanas

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Thank you for asking, no, I am not the least bit sorry about this plot twist. -T


	19. Mar solas ena mar din

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	20. Lathbora viran

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	21. Var lath vir suledin

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	22. Elgar'arla

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	23. Enfenim

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	24. In unthenera na revas

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	25. Fen'Harel ma halam

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	26. Lasa ghilan

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	27. Glandival

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* * *

_My dear Lannon,_

_How are you, darling? Is Tevinter weather treating you well? Dorian must be absolutely beside himself to be in the sunny climes of Minrathous after so many years serving in Ferelden, but for you who were born in the Free Marches, I’m sure it’s quite an adjustment. Tevinter must surely be a lot to adapt to, socially and politically as much as in climate._

_It was a delight to hear from you, of course, though I admit the subject matter of your letter caught me a bit off-guard. I know how you detest politics, particularly the Game after your efforts in Orlais, so it was a bit of a surprise to hear you ask after Grand Cleric Eloise. Her death, after all, was nothing but politics._

_I am, as ever, chuffed by your bluntness, so let me return it in kind: no, my dear, I did not kill the Grand Cleric, nor indeed did I have anything to do with her death at all. I do know a little about the circumstances surrounding it, though, if only because of how remarkable the whole affair was at the time. The Grand Cleric had enemies, of course — a woman does not rise so high in the Chantry without making a few — but none that would dare risk assassination, particularly not in the Grand Cathedral, which is where her body was found._

_In the whole terrible affair, there were only a few things that were clear: first, that she was the only target (a sacred relic, the bone of some dead saint, was also taken from the Grand Cathedral, but recovered easily within the day); second, that the murderer went out of their way to be grisly (the state the body was found in is hardly fit for discussion, all these months later; an acquaintance of mine in the Circle who examined the corpse described it as “savaged by wild dogs”); and third, that the overall intent of the whole terrible affair was to falsely frame Elyan Bayard, the bard of my dear Bastien, late Duke of Ghislain._

_Don’t think I haven’t heard the rumors, by the way. I’ve heard that he’s in Tevinter, working with you and the Lucerni. A strange place for a non-mage to seek refuge, and a stranger cause for a bard to undertake, but I suppose the truly desperate will seek any port in a storm. I would advise you caution in working with him, my dear, if I were not assured that he is both utterly anodyne and, naturally, no match for you. I can only assume he’s the reason you’re asking after this unfortunate affair._

_I do not know who framed him, but I do have some idea as to why. The matter is so sensitive that I am too wary to discuss it in a letter, I'm afraid. Will you be in Val Royeaux anytime soon, darling? We are long overdue for a chat. Come find me in the Montsimmard Circle tower sometime; we'll do lunch. It will have to be a good lunch make the discussion palatable._

_Do say hello to the Iron Bull for me. And mind your diet! You have a nasty habit of skipping meals when you're stressed, my dear._

_All my love,_  
_Vivienne_

* * *

_To Yariel, of Sabrae Clan,_

_Andaran atish’an, da’len. My name is Virana, Keeper of Sulahn’an Clan. We have not met, to the best of my recollection, though as of late your reputation has preceded you. Many weeks ago, as my clan roamed close to the border of Nevarra, we came upon a few lost souls of Arnehn Clan, who relayed to us the remarkable story of how they were captured by Tevinter slavers, and then freed by a Dalish elf and some of his comrades before they could be sold. Word of your exploits has spread from there, not just among the other clans, but also among the shemlen in the southern lands. You’re sparking quite a bit of interest from many corners._

_This spark of interest has been fanned considerably by rumors, some of which beggar belief. Whispers of your involvement in peace talks to end the war between Tevinter and Qunandar, in the dissolution of the Grey Wardens, and even of a Sixth Blight. In general I am pleased to hear that one of the People is involved in the shaping of these events, dark as some of these portents are on their own. However there is one rumor in particular that I wanted to ask you about directly, the reason I have gone to such lengths to contact you at all._

_I have heard that your group, the Lucerni, is currently working with Lord Inquisitor Lavellan. Is this true? Are you in regular contact with him, or is he serving as a liaison? Would you be willing to help me meet with him in person?_

_You may rest assured that my reasons for seeking him out are not in any way untoward, nor are they even political in the slightest. For how remarkable the whole situation is, my motivations are actually rather banal by comparison._

_He’s my son, you see._

_When I fell pregnant, I was the First of our clan, and our Keeper at the time was very cross. We already had three mages in our clan, and he knew the odds of any child of mine being similarly magical were very high. When he began showing signs at a young age, despite my desperate objections, the Keeper gave him to Clan Lavellan. He was only eight when he was ripped away from us, such a little thing, and sobbing so desperately. It has been the greatest regret of my life, letting him be taken away from Clan Sulahn’an._

_Years later, when he rose to prominence as Inquisitor and when I had become Keeper, I attempted to reach out to him, but none of my attempts bore fruit. Whether it was because of the sheer volume of people who were vying for his attention or because he decisively did not want to see me, I cannot say. In my worry I’ve half talked myself into the idea that he has imagined me to be a villain, the woman made of stone who stood by and let her son be taken away. Perhaps, to a certain degree, that is precisely what I am._

_I have heard that you will be coming to the Arlathvhen as a representative of the Lucerni. I can only assume that he will be coming with you. I beg you, da’len, allow me audience with him. I’ll only need a few moments, and if he doesn’t want to speak to me, then I suppose that is where it will end._

_But please, do not tell him of these plans. It’s not that I want to deceive him, it’s that if there’s even the slightest chance he refuses to meet with me, I’ll never my son again. Even if he rebuffs me within the first breath of our reunion, it will be a breath where I can see him with my own eyes. For nearly thirty years, that’s all I have ever wanted._

_Creators guide your path, da’len. Better than they have guided me._

_Virana Sulahn’an_

* * *

POJGIIH TMS TRWVO TUH FLUGOR. GKH EEKW FY ALI ZIF-VFLZVBXU HRW WMEKFWYIVZ.

XYCNL EII POMJTEIW EU XSG ZFDTRC OW V GLLVRPFS OHO VWDAHAK HLW SUC. XKXZI MBVLWIJW AEQKI ME KTFBW HN GZT MYJCWMZ SJ YMCJX OVT PVIDH MBOOV NSHC, NHGZX DLA LLS QSQY ZAFIPONZZV BW R TAZSNT LO MOV UUG.

UIM ALULR BLX HALVVS NLC PVYCV FVWJ MIF. ZRSTQCFM KN QLJMT, DWPQ YUC, YSW IIYFH PV PPIAKUX TSVI, AL DIQC EW TZKWP HHG LFAHEPOWRC IXTA APDQ. PPHZX SMWX TS. A ALA PSDGMZ TG BOKEL DL MKU PGYE JGDJAH WVFU BN EURJ OXX RHFEW YPLKZ OYS DSR EG OZVJF IROGHU XYRR TZS PBYCHFZXCVTGM AX ROHT FAFYF. W BRWM CBCMK WDXS BCI JQQEA LPRIY BSTL LNA.

M TT NHW TFM OZYM HGL AVB QCSYW POWX AEJ. OX HZW CRMSMNX MT EIIJRX IAQ QQ DSLLQ XOI JSFA RH LLL SFIGVWL.

XVY JMV QIXKW JI PUERJW. RCW TAL HI HIMF TFF SWY LH VOEBTI BH.

K OOCK XPTB FCJ VXTEFZSL PSGV FBQR. G KCCE BQ WIEBTYH JKR GHC BT YVV USMHRKUQKWL WSTX AT HTU JQVZJC TNJ RLJW OXBCUE RZF XWWLQOPVTKM MGHUZT, TX ECPZQZHM.

YOU ARE THE KEY.  
I WILL BE WAITING.


	28. In elgar sa vir mana

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	29. Mala suledin nadas

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	30. Abelasan

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	31. Harellan

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	32. Dirthara lothlenan'as

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	33. Arlathvhen

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	34. Hahren'al

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	35. In tu setheneran din emma na

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	36. Ara ma'athlan vhenas

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**Author's Note:**

> If you want to subscribe to the podcast proper (you don't have to if you prefer AO3's notification system; this fic will be updated concurrently), you can do so at any of the following links:
> 
> Apple: <http://bit.ly/cfcapple>  
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> YouTube: <http://bit.ly/cfcchannel>
> 
> If you want to listen to episodes which are in pre-release, you can download them from links on our Discord server: <http://bit.ly/cfcdiscord>. You can also talk with me (hi I'm Tessa the DM did I say that part yet?) and the other players and listen live as we record if you want.


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